The Final Plane
by Nemaides
Summary: Nathaniel sends Bartimaeus out to capture the ever-evasive Kitty Jones.
1. a beginning of sorts

**This particular adventure takes place in the middle of books 1 and 2. Nathaniel has summoned Bartimaeus only a few months after the Amulet of Samarkand "incident." **

***edited 11/24/15 **

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"Ooh, _that's_ not a pretty sight," I said with a devilish grin. "What d'you think, Nat?"

The boy beside me gave no sign that he had heard. He just continued trudging on, coat flapping ridiculously in the wind.

I skipped a few paces ahead. "You going to say anything? What's the master's opinion on the carnage?"

He merely shook his head and kept walking, dark eyes distant.

"Sure, just ignore me, then. But, say . . . is it just me, or does that wall look like it's about to collapse?" I glanced sideways at him.

Now Nathaniel was looking at our destination as well, face whitening with anxiety. I felt a lick of satisfaction. _This _was the work of the people he was trying to stop, and it was one of the reasons why he had summoned me back from my home to aid him; it felt good to watch him stand there and feel the pressure, as my own essence prickled with pain. It was like a measure of revenge that I hadn't even had to carry out myself.

So, what was it that we were looking at with such horror? Ah, just a crumbling shop soon to collapse, which we were visiting on an observational job. Framed against the gray sky, it looked rather dystopian. And sad. Of course, that's what all buildings look like after several elemental spheres have hit them; there was still smoke leaking from the roof, and the whole block was deathly silent, as if all the life had been leeched from it.

After what seemed like an age, Nathaniel licked his lips and began walking slowly again.

I kicked a soggy newspaper off of my shoe with distaste. "You'd think the cleaner imps would have swept this all up by now."

"It's still a crime scene," Nathaniel replied absently. "They shouldn't touch anything that could be evidence."

I peered down at the watery print. "_Scandal! Latest Gossip on Miss Ward . . . _This doesn't really seem like investigation-worthy stuff . . . though, I wonder what the gossip is." I grinned at my master. "Think there are any naughty pictures?"

Nathaniel just scowled at me.

I wandered past in my usual form of Ptolemy and entered the ruins, casually incinerating a path through the winding strips of caution tape strung around the building. Behind me, Nathaniel had stopped to peer through a shattered window; he had a blood-red handkerchief pressed firmly against his nose and mouth. I suppose the delicate little flower didn't want to breath in any dust.

Me, I drank it in. I even imagined that I could smell the misery as well, and the fear that pervaded the air. ((It was like being transported back in time, to an age where swords and bows were used in gory battles, and towns were burned to the blackened earth. The good old days, in other words.))

Once inside, the walls and ceiling were charred black; the floor was also flooded with a grimy layer of oily water, and burnt objects littered the floor like dead bodies. I pushed experimentally on one wall. It wobbled dangerously.

This was the work of the Resistance, all right. The owners of this store had sold magicians' trinkets—things like chalk, lacquered bowls, rosemary stalks, and incense. You name it, and they had it. To the Resistance, the shop was fair game for assisting magicians. Plus, more evidence that the rebel group had blown up this shop was their notorious fondness for the use of elemental spheres. I'd only just finished sweeping/scrubbing/rebuilding another target five blocks away, with the occasional healthy snack of a podgy worker imp.

"It's even worse than the report said." Nathaniel appeared by my side. He seemed rather deflated.

I patted him sympathetically on the back. "When you get kicked off of the Ministry, I'll help you find a job as a chimney sweep. You're small enough, thin enough. You'd need to cut your ego back a little, though. It won't fit through the tight spaces."

"_I'm _the one who's egotistical?" With a contemptuous spin that was as elegant as a dancing hippo, Nathaniel marched out of the building, tripping on bits of rubble along the way. I shook my head and trailed after him.

Rain was beginning to sprinkle lightly when I hopped back outside. Nathaniel was stalking ahead, hands jammed in pockets, each footstep stabbing into paved ground. Looks like we were leaving.

I caught up to Nathaniel with a few swift steps. Down the block we went, passing various shops that neither of us paid any mind to. Drops of water beaded on our clothes and in our hair.

"I have a pretty good handle on this mission, you know," the boy said abruptly. "All I need to do is get the Resistance in the hands of the government."

A chuckle resounded through the rain. "I might be mistaken, O Master . . . but wasn't that your goal from the _beginning_?"

Nathaniel walked on without speaking, shoulders hunched. The Egyptian boy paused for a moment, eyebrows raised, and then padded after him. A raincoat materialized over his bare torso just as the sky began to thunder.

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By the time we got back to Nathaniel's apartment, we were soaking wet—or, rather, he was. About a fourth of the way there I had tired of the feeling of a soggy Ptolemy, changed into the form of a mouse, and snuggled into Nathaniel's coat pocket.

The mouse somersaulted acrobatically onto the cushy hall carpet. After a moment, a grizzled janitor took its place, complete with bucket and mop, and began to swab away the torrent of water Nathaniel was dripping onto his glossy wooden flooring. ((The flooring that yours truly had to wax every other week, along with several other humiliating assortments. Why the darn boy couldn't summon up an imp or two to do the household chores instead, I had no idea. But _no, _the boy had to use a fourth-level djinni to scrub his toilets instead.))

The janitor shook his gray-haired head. "A bit of rain, and then look at you. You're as wretched as a beetle-imp."

But Nathaniel was already striding down the hall, wringing out his wet hair, headed for his office.

I gave an impatient sigh. Bucket and mop disappeared, and I switched back into my preferable form of Ptolemy.

These things were happening more often, lately. We'd be having a conversation, if with a few snippy fights along the way, and then _wham—_he'd get all absentminded and wander off, like he'd forgotten what we'd been doing. I was a bit worried, and produced my theory to him in my usual gentle way—but no matter how many times I toppled his ink jar or set his Persian rug aflame, he wouldn't see my point. It was _infuriating, _to put it lightly. When _not_ put lightly, I would say that I spent many moonlit nights plotting dastardly revenge.

It wasn't as infuriating, however, as I had been when I realized that I had been summoned once more, only perhaps a year after that Amulet incident. And when I had discovered by whom . . . let's just say that the scorch mark on Nathaniel's desk wasn't from a too-hot mug.

I headed down the hall and pressed my ear up against the wooden office door. There was the sound of a tapping pencil and ceaseless sighs. It looked like Nathaniel wasn't as carefree about this mission as he'd said—and no wonder. I'd had my own encounter with the Resistance and infamous Kitty.

The Egyptian boy wandered back down the corridor, lost in thought. No matter how behind Nathaniel was in tracking down the Resistance, no matter how lost or incompetent he was ((answer: _quite_)) Kitty and the rest of her group would be found eventually. And, perhaps, then I would be dismissed.

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Nathaniel started for what seemed like the hundredth time on his report to the Prime Minister. Beside him, in his plastic garbage bin, sat a mound of crumpled-up sheets of paper, all with discarded ideas and scribbles.

Staring down at the blank sheet of paper, pen in hand, Nathaniel had no idea what to say. He tapped the pencil in his hand against his palm. The facts, he just needed to state the facts.

The door swung open and a tanned boy eased in along with it, his dark eyes fixed on Nathaniel. The boy studiously ignored the djinni and lowered the pen to the paper. _Dear Mr. Devereaux..._

_"_Are you getting along all right? Need any words of advice? Because, believe me, I'm full of them." Bartimaeus lounged casually against the wall. "For example, one time in Cairo, there was this egotistical little prick of a boy whose name was—"

"Bartimaeus."

"Er . . . no, actually. It was Menhotep."

"_No. _I meant that you, Bartimaeus, should go away. I'm quite busy."

"Really? _Quite _so?" Bartimaeus asked, gazing at the filled bin. A scrumpled paper ball wobbled at the top of the heap before plummeting to the floor. "What, in building the world's largest collection of paper balls?"

"I'm writing a _letter!_ I need some space to think . . . Isn't there something else you can do?" He tucked his head back down again, and the pen began flying across the paper.

The djinni plopped onto the couch. "All right, all right. Just ignore the poor djinni. Goodness knows how bored and tired he is, being stuck on Earth for four months straight."

"What?" Nathaniel looked up blankly. The pen in his grip wobbled, before toppling against the ink jar, sending the black fluid spreading across his mahogany-wood desk. A brief curse, and the dark-haired boy was busily scrubbing against the stains and fluttering his paper in the air.

A loud sigh came from the form sprawled against the couch. "Clumsy, as always."

"I'm notclumsy."

"Oh?" A disbelieving chuckle resonated throughout the room. Bartimaeus reclined back on the couch; his dark eyes were fixated on the boy slumped against his desk.

"You're not leaving."

"Well, I'm not _bothering _you, am I? Just being nice and quiet over here in the corner. Nice and quiet, the way I've been for several months."

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. "Right. Nice and quiet."

The djinni stared at him with a hard, unwavering gaze. Nathaniel narrowed his own eyes. "What do you want?" he asked.

Bartimaeus picked at his nails. "And I thought you government types were supposed to be somewhat intelligent. Silly me."

The boy frowned. "I don't—oh. Oh, I see."

"So clever. Now, enlighten me," Bartimaeus said, cocking his head at an angle. "What is it I want?"

"You've been bothering me for _ages _on this. I've told you, I'll dismiss you as soon as I can."

"That's what you said months ago." Bartimaeus was now pointing a finger accusingly at Nathaniel's face. " Have some other forsaken djinni to do your work, why don't you?"

"But I need _your_ help!" The drying ink on the paper stuck it fast to Nathaniel's fingers; he tore it away and threw it into the bin, gritting his teeth. This again. It was always like this. Why couldn't the demon be patient?

"What help?" Bartimaeus sniped. "What need have you of I? Do you want me to polish the woodwork? Scrub the _toilets?_ Hire a housekeeper, then, you half-noodled twit!"

Nathaniel glared at the djinni. The Egyptian boy glowered right back, eyes flaring. For a few seconds, they had a silent standoff.

"Fine."

"Eh?"

"I'll dismiss you-"

"You will?" Bartimaeus was obviously taken aback. He beamed. Bird song rang out and the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle lightly pervaded the room. "Good. At last, you've come to your senses."

"—After we've got this Resistance stuff figured out. It's perfect, since it's true that you aren't doing enough . . . You found Kitty Jones before, and you can find her again, can't you?"

Silence. It was a deadly, unearthly silence.

Then, as fast as it had arrived, the sweet-smelling perfume disappeared. The bird song screeched to a halt. The stench of rotten eggs filled the air.

Bartimaeus' eyes burned dark as coals. "You _know_ that's not what I meant."

The djinni seemed to grow taller—his shadow stretched and elongated in the darkness, covering the room in a fold of black. Nathaniel's words felt frozen in the back of the throat. Over by the window, the curtain flapped wildly, blowing in a nonexistent wind.

"Dismiss me_." _The words were soft, but they carried power and centuries of age in them. Within them rang the sound of weariness and anger and unspeakable strength.

Nathaniel opened his mouth to speak; nothing came out.

"_Now._" The Egyptian boy's face was menacing and shadowed; blue flames flickered between his fingertips.

Nathaniel, forcing past the blockage in his throat, spoke a word—a rush of wind swept from behind him and and sent the demon tumbling back onto the sofa.

The lights turned back on and the drapes grew still. The evil stench dissipated, leaving the room smelling dusty and dry.

Nathaniel stumbled over to his chair and put his head in his heads, breathing deeply. After a few quiet moments, he felt calm enough to speak. "Bartimaeus."

The Egyptian boy's back was facing him, head raised at a petulant angle.

"I'll let you go back to the Other Place right after we've got this Resistance business figured out, I swear," Nathaniel said.

Bartimaeus coughed and muttered something under his breath. He gestured rudely with one finger.

Nathaniel groaned. "You're the only djinni that I have enough history with to know I can work with," he explained. "That's the only reason why I'm keeping you here." He felt a surge of contempt. "It's not like I _want _a slave with a personality like yours."

A dismissive shrug.

"Bartimaeus—" He sought for a different option and then slumped. "—_fine._ Just this once, and I'll dismiss you! Are you even listening to me?"

"How could anyone block out that awful squeak of yours?" Bartimaeus complained at last. "I think you're finally going through puberty. Your voice is getting all high-pitched at times, oh so _very_ macho. Like a mouse."

"Stop changing the subject."

"Or maybe a guinea pig. Those angry, reclusive types."

"BARTIMAEUS!"

"I fulfill the charge, and _then_ you send me happily back to the Other Place," Bartimaeus said sourly. "What do you want me to do?"

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" '_Find Kitty Jones and bring her to me,' " _I grumbled to myself. "Just like that, hmm?"

I didn't often mutter and murmur to myself like this—I usually found it to be a trait of the spirits in the more, well . . . _psychotic _group.

However, I had an excuse. My charge. Nathaniel thought it was easy as buttering bread, eh? Well, _he _hadn't been the one to go out searching London and heaven above every week, fighting through rain or cold or swarms of stupid female pigeons hoping for a nuzzle. Kitty Jones was a hard one to catch—slippery, she was.

I should have known better than to complain to the boy. It was so like him to misunderstand—or perhaps not—and send me off on this thankless mission.

The pigeon wove through the sky. Below, markets teemed with racing children, pickpockets . . .

Pickpockets. Sounded familiar. Namely _Resistance_ pickpockets.

My hopes weren't high, but still I drifted from the sky toward the busy Trafalgar Square, in which all of humanity seemed to be crammed. I landed lightly on a tree limb.

Half an hour passed uneventfully. Old ladies displayed their wares, grinning creakily at passerby and showing their brown, cracked teeth. Bustling tourists with wallets stuffed with bills left arm-filled with scammed plastic whalebones and other such assortments. A doughy-looking obese policeman patrolled the Square, one hand on his bludgeon. And then there were the occasional magicians, scattered throughout the busy square, noticeable to my seven-planed eyes by the traces of magic stuck to their swirling cloaks. More obvious clues were their cold-set eyes, firm jaws, the protruding gut and loose jowl, and the human-formed spirit only a few paces away.

At half an hour and two minutes, something occurred. Something different.

A mixed group of children and an adult emerged from an alleyway one-by-one, looking casual. They blended into the busy crowd in an instant, and the suddenly attentive pigeon had to crane its neck and hop to a higher branch to spot them once more.

They had spread out, the five of them. I had eyes looking out for only one.

I leaned forward, gripping the knobbed branch with sharp claws, and stared hard.

Kitty was standing beside the stall, now, along with a tall, lean boy with a mop of brown hair. They were conferring casually, eyes flicking ever so slightly toward the white-haired man on their left as they did. As I suspected, when the old man nodded his head to the stall-keeper, packed up his purchase, and left, the two of them followed.

The pigeon fluffed out its wings, cracked its neck from side to side, and took flight, swooping overhead.

They didn't get far.

At the very end of the Square, a limousine pulled up to the curb. The driver opened the door and ushered the man inside—seconds later, a mouse unseen by all except me hopped into the limousine right after the man, and the car drove off smoothly.

Unfortunately, in my observations of the old man, his shiny black limousine, and the unthreatening-but-definitely-threatening mouse, the two children had disappeared.

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Right after the cursed djinni left, Nathaniel relaxed in his chair. It had been a close one.

Over time, the djinni had become more and more impatient, demanding more and more often to be dismissed; and each time, Nathaniel had said no.

Why couldn't the djinni leave him alone? He had other things to deal with—most of all, the Resistance. Kitty, Fred, and Stanley, and a few unnamed others all had to be tracked down and found. Of course, for him, Kitty was the most wanted. He remembered lying in the pouring rain, with her standing over him, and the contempt in her voice . . .

Nathaniel stared moodily at the carpet. The Ministry was getting impatient with him; he could tell from the restless, scornful looks on their faces during their meetings. At least he had his best djinni on the job—not that he'd ever tell Bartimaeus that.

The phone rang, startling Nathaniel out of his moody stupor. He self-consciously brushed back his hair and then picked up the phone.

"Nathaniel, assistant to the Head of Internal Affairs," he piped.

"Excellent," a voice said dryly. It had a rough edge to it, similar to the harsher baritones of the commoner accents.

Nathaniel relaxed slightly, shifting into his seat. "Who may this be?" he asked politely. Perhaps it was a mere commercial man, or a surveyor. He could stand to answer a few questions—he felt like talking right now.

"A person who's coming to pay you a call," the voice replied slyly. "Do you know who we are? Here's a hint—we've got some pretty sharp knives on our hands. And we can use them. Remember now?"

"Who _is_ this? I—I demand to know!" Nathaniel said; his mouth was suddenly dry.

Soft chuckles emanated from the speaker. "You demand, you demand . . . Watch your back," the voice hissed, and then the line clicked off.

Nathaniel set the phone down beside him, shaken. He needed Bartimaeus. _Now._ If anyone came, he would have protection, just like how he had been protected in the attack before.

But he had sent Bartimaeus out. The djinni was not to report back until later, surely, when he had found the Resistance—and that would take time, too much time. He could draw a pentacle, perhaps, and summon back the djinni, but by then it might be over for him . . .

It was the only option. He could not ask his fellow Ministry members for help. It was likely that one of them had sent the message, and he could not trust any of them.

Time passed in a blur. Before he knew it, Nathaniel was standing in a chalked pentacle in the summoning room. Perhaps he was just overreacting . . .? But he had heard the threat, plain as day. His life was in danger.

The boy began to speak quickly.

Just as he did so, he heard the slight hiss of the soggy leaves on the walkway—the sound of many quick feet moving lightly over the mess.

He chanted on, trying to recall if, when he had stumbled inside just a few hours earlier, he had locked the front door . . .

He was reaching the end of the summons, and a wave of relief washed over him as he strained his hears. Perhaps there was no one there.

However, then Nathaniel heard soft footsteps stop outside of the door, and a hand land on the doorknob. He heard the creak of the sticky doorknob, and then the soft squeal as the front door, which was _unlocked_, was pushed open.

"Hello? Is anyone in here?" a soft voice cooed.

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I was soaring over the cemetery, flying over fields and fields of the buried dead, when it started: an infernal tugging of my bowels, as if they were trying to escape my insides.

I was being summoned.

My beak clacked once in irritation. What did the kid want _now? _

The pigeon flew on determinedly, just to spite him; but before the tugging could get any worse, I relented and let myself shimmer out of the gray sky without a sound.

When the dizziness stopped, I sighed, stretched, and yawned dramatically, planning to show off 32 sets of brilliantly white, dentist-applauded teeth before remembering that I was a stark-gray pigeon with smoke-coagulated feathers.

The pigeon huffed in irritation and changed form, into Ptolemy, and _then _I yawned, showing off a set of 32 brilliantly white, dentist-applauded teeth—and stopped.

"Why, thank you, Nat," I said in false mortification, "but I already know how mighty I am. There's no need at all to bow to me."

Nathaniel was on his knees, bent over, but as I said this he snapped up sharpish and glared at me. "What took you so long?"

"Hey, I took as long as a normal summoning, bud," I said, putting hands on hips. "And speaking of which, why…?"

"There are people in the house. I think they wish me harm," Nathaniel replied queasily, standing up. "They said they're with the Resistance."

"_Again_?"

"Protect me, and get rid of them, Bartimaeus," Nathaniel cut in. "No, wait—don't. Restrain them, but don't kill them—we need them for questioning. Go."

I shrugged. "Don't matter to me none," I said, and stepped out of the pentacle, grabbed the boy, and flung him into a nearby closet. His upset complaints were swiftly stifled when I gave the closet doors a good kick.

"Stay in there, and don't come out," I said sharply.

I placed a Shield around the closet, ignored his muffled cries, and strode out of the room. It felt good to finally have a little action.

In the office of John Mandrake, the black-clad figure ((stupid, really, because it wasn't even dark yet, but there's stereotypes for you. Everyone's got to be a ninja these days, when they weren't really at all that great. Too many silver weapons for my liking, especially those cursed throwing stars)) paused, listened carefully. He had heard a slight rustle in the hall outside. The boy, most likely, trying to slip away out the door before notice.

Not under his watch.

The figure crept to the door, glanced around. Nothing. He moved slightly out of the doorway—

At which I came crashing down, releasing my sticky hold on the ceiling.

The poor man didn't see it coming at all. One moment he was looking around for my measly master, and the next moment I had knocked him to the ground and was sitting on him in all of my 200-pound froggy glory.

The intruder grunted; his face purpled as he raised a fist. I smacked the blow away with ease, throwing in a languid yawn for added affect, and then grabbed him around the throat with one webbed hand.

The man flinched back, drawing his head to the side. His eyes, which were the only part of his face I could see due to the baklava, were shiny with fear. I cocked my head to the side and smiled devilishly. His eyes withdrew into terrified slits, his breaths came out in fast pants, and he took a deep breath in to scream-

Pity it was all for nothing.

I hit him swiftly on the temple with my fist; the man slackened in my grip. The frog clambered off his chest and then hopped onto the ceiling with one bound.

As stealthily as a giant amphibian could, I went in search of the others.

They were in the summoning room.

I crept through the doorway, crabbing along the ceiling, thrilling with the hype of a hunt.

I dropped down soundlessly behind them—

Almost soundlessly, actually.

As I landed, my back right foot landed on a squeaky floorboard I'd completely forgotten about. A shrill cry escaped from the wood. The frog spat out a curse and leaped to the side just as a silver dagger pierced the back wall, cutting through the space where it had just landed.

The two black-clad figures regarded me, their eyes looking out from their baklavas.

The frog gave a small wave. Then it dove forwards into one of the intruders with all the force of a two-ton truck.

The human fell back with a startled gasp, ripping his dagger from his belt and slashing at me several times.

My essence shivered mightily and I darted away from him, narrowly missing a hit by another flying dagger. ((Though cheaply made, all of these daggers had the possibility of killing me if one hit a vital spot.))

I landed hard on the floor, rolled, and sprang back onto my sticky toes. The two intruders had regrouped, and were now eyeing me warily, their thrown knives scattered throughout the room.

I sat back on my heels, back to the closet where Nathaniel was hidden, and rested my chin on my fist. "You know," I said in a friendly tone, "Other times I would have applauded this attempt on my master's life, but unfortunately he has given me a direct order to stop you three. My apologies."

Now the black-clad attackers' eyes glimmered with amusement, and they darted a look at each other. I followed their movements closely. Something was up. Something I had said. What?

The frog was bewildered for a moment; then it tensed. It whirled around, bracing itself on its three-toed feet.

Four more attackers loomed behind, one of which was the one I had knocked out, which was evident from the wobbly way he stood and the dazed look in his eyes. I guess I hadn't hit him hard enough. Pity.

I gave them my best froggy smile. "Um…no hard feelings?"

Six pairs of hands rested on twelve daggers. The frog hunched its shoulders.

The daggers flew, their silver points gleaming, heading directly for me. My essence ached with the threatening cold fast approaching. Without thinking, using reflexes accumulated over the centuries, I shifted to a moth the size of a button, which darted through the air to land on a window drape. The daggers clattered harmlessly against the wall.

The attackers reacted quickly, spinning around, their hands flying back to their belted waists upon which many more gleaming daggers hung.

"Where'd the demon go?" one asked, a feminine voice now.

I couldn't help but feel affronted at the title of address, and then hunched down amongst the folds of drapes, even tucking my antennae in, while I clambered slowly up the heavy, rich-colored fabric. I must have been the stealthiest moth around.

"It's gone somewhere," another said uneasily. ((I could already tell that this one wasn't the brightest apple in the barrel. I mean, seriously? Talk about stating the obvious…)) He began picking up his knives. The others did the same.

As they were occupied, the moth drew itself up another few inches and wavered back and forth to get a better vantage point—it leaned back a little, licked antennae, and then raised a tiny leg.

An Inferno burst out, charring the creamy white wall in the outside hall. The six whirled around once more, hands on daggers.

I felt like I was back in the good old days, fighting uttuku. They were really dumb creatures—fell for anything. Not like I'm making a comparison here, or anything.

The moth dropped down unnoticed behind them, raised a leg again, and blasted them all with a gentle Squall. They all flew forward, hit the wall, and slowly slid down to slump on their knees before collapsing onto the ground.

I released the Shield on the closet. "Come on out, _John_."

My rumpled young master pushed himself out of the closet and brushed past to examine the intruders. By now I had them all propped up against the wall, their hands bound behind their backs by their black leather belts.

Nothing at all that eventful happened after that. Nathaniel hurried off to make a few quick phone calls, I rechecked the assassins' bound hands, and then five minutes later police arrived to hustle them away.

I waved a cheerful goodbye as the flashing squad cars zoomed off. Then I heaved the heavy wooden door round and locked it tight, and listened to the eerie silence.

Everything was extremely quiet, almost as if the house itself was holding its breath. I scuffed the floor to make a little sound; it was as loud as if a vase had crashed to the floor in the icy stillness, and I felt slightly disturbed, ill at ease.

"Mr. _Mandrake," _I called, wandering back down the hall and sliding past the large, oozing scorch mark. Where'd that idiotic master of mine go now?

I briefly fantasized of a hidden intruder lying in wait, making quick work of my master, and then myself, evaporating freely back to the Other Place. If only things worked themselves out so easily like that.

I found him in his office, standing amongst toppled cushions and scattered sheets of paper, looking slightly lost.

"_Something_ looks different about this place."

Nathaniel bent down to pick up a few sheets of paper. "Very funny. Now help me clear this mess up."

I kicked a few cushions back onto the sofa and waded into the mess. Nathaniel made his way over to his desk, which had shoved a few ways across the room. The drawers with locks on them had been angrily knifed.

"I guess they get angry when they can't find what they want," I said. "Which would be you, and your important papers. I'm still waiting for a 'thank you', by the way."

Nathaniel didn't answer; he was leafing through his papers, eyes narrowed. At last, he glanced up for a second. "What did you say?"

I let out a huffy breath, blowing the black bangs away from my forehead. My bare feet shifted in dark soil, which, I realized, was spilling out from a toppled potted plant.

I straightened the plant, patting it on its glossy green leaves, and flicked my hand slightly to blow the spilled dirt out of the open window. "I guess you'll have to go ahead and rewrite your thousands of official documents that they took. Poor you."

Nathaniel looked up from the papers he held in his hand. "They didn't take anything, Bartimaeus."

"Are you sure?" I held out a hand at the mess. "There's like a hundred papers all around the room. How would you notice if one was missing?"

Nathaniel shrugged. "Let me rephrase. Nothing _important _was taken. The files and papers that are to be worried about are still in a cabinet, with my other magical items." As he said this, he fiddled with that key that was always hung around his neck. ((Something I had presumed to be his attempt at a bling-y fashion statement, or maybe a gift from some fantasizing lover about the "key to my heart." But, no, it was the key to his Ministry papers. How very like him.))

Now it was my turn to shrug. It was strange how much communication could be expressed in just one motion.

I picked up all the papers and tossed them neatly on Nathaniel's desk. Meanwhile, the dark-haired boy in mention was on the phone again, talking quietly, his eyebrows knit closely together in an adult expression that looked out-of-place on his youngish features. After all, the boy was only…what…twelve? Thirteen? I'd lost track.

As he spoke, I flopped onto the couch, nestled into the cushions, and absently counted the number of assassination attempts on my master.

The first one had been when we were leaving a coffee shop from a brief, casual meeting with the inept Julius Tallow, where Nathaniel was the one who did most of the debriefing. We had stepped outside, and out of nowhere a new type of Sphere, a Detonation kind, based on djinni magic, came whistling toward us. I reacted quickly, throwing up a Shield around us three and knocking Nathaniel to the ground, leaving Tallow's djinni to stand there still slightly bewildered. No one was hurt, Nathaniel and Tallow were brushed off and examined by paramedics, and life continued on as normal.

Then, maybe a month later, Nathaniel and I had been caught in a crossover alleyway by a few black-clad figures ((sound familiar?)). I'd knocked them aside, and swooped Nathaniel out of there in the form of a giant hawk.

Silence. There seemed to be a whole lot of this lately.

I broke off from my musing, looked down at my count of three, and then clasped my hands together.

"Well?" I asked Nathaniel. "What did…?"

"My attackers were interrogated. They were the same people as before," Nathaniel said, looking out of the window. "Commoners roused by the Resistance, and deciding to take action themselves."

"Well, good for them!" I said cheerfully, clapping my hands—and then rolled my eyes and stopped when Nathaniel shot me a look that could shear through solid rock.

"I don't understand! Commoners should be grateful to us. They should be glad for their government, their empire," Nathaniel said passionately, whirling away from the window to go traipsing back to his desk. "Without magicians, they would be nothing. Magicians have made London everything it is today."

"Well, London is pretty trashy. I wouldn't go bragging about that if I were you."

Another glower. I shut up, but really, what can you do? It was the truth, albeit one that was hard for the magicians to digest.

"Kitty is plenty independent," I said, leaning back into a more comfortable position and placing my arms leisurely behind my head. I darted a look up at the boy; he was looking slightly uncomfortable. "Why don't you ask her what _she_ thinks?"

"Speaking of Kitty Jones," Nathaniel interrupted quickly, "I sent you out. I know it's early, but did you manage to find anything on the Resistance?"

I hesitated. "Well. Slightly."

"Which means…?"

"I found Kitty, and a few others."

"And?" His arms were crossed.

"And I lost them."

He didn't speak, didn't scowl, just stood there, sending me into a kerfuffle of words.

"Hey, um…Nath—Mandrake. Boy. It wasn't technically my fault; you summoned me back before I could find them. You know?"

Nathaniel turned his back to me, his hands gripping his desk in high agitation. This was getting good. And bad, depending on which way you looked at it. I just hoped it didn't end up with me in the Shriveling Fire.

"Hello?"

You could have heard a pin drop.

"Oh, okay, I'm being _ignored._ That's great. While I'm at it, why don't I just keep jabbering—"

Nathaniel sighed, a loud, frustrated sigh, and ran his hands through his hair. He whirled around to face me, arms rigid at his sides, and then lashed out to poke me hard in the chest.

"Do you even know how important this is to me? I need to find the Resistance. And thus _you _need to find the Resistance!"

I stood my ground and poked him harder back in the chest. "I would have _found _them again if you hadn't summoned me! Don't blame this on me, Mandrake."

His face was flushed. "I should have known you would have messed this up. When it's up to you, everything goes wrong. Just go away, won't you?"

I shot off of the sofa, kicked hard at fallen cushion, and then left the room, slamming the door loudly behind me.

The boy was getting on my nerves, always blaming everything on me, me, _me. _Why didn't he ever try going out into the rain, the cold, and the gusty winds? Why didn't he try to do anything for himself for once?

Because he was a magician, that's why, and magicians never do their own dirty work. Ptolemy, though…he was the only exception. And he didn't last long.

I needed some fresh air.

I crossed the hall into Nathaniel's cramped bedroom, and knocked the window open with a hard gust of wind. It fell off its hinges and toppled onto the black-cemented street below, where the glass shattered loudly and somewhere a woman screamed.

I plopped onto the bed, and stared up at the ceiling, feeling some relief as the cool air pervaded the stuffy room.

I shifted slightly on the cold sheets and felt a twinge in my essence as I moved, thumping in the painful ache that was always there on my visits to Earth, and for a moment I was reminded of Ptolemy, the way he always took care that I was never in great pain on what he liked to call my "voyages."

I held my brown-skinned fingers up to my eyes, traced over the fingernails lightly. It had been 2,000 years, and yet I still remembered him clearly.


	2. the final plane

Nathaniel felt like throwing something against the wall. It could be anything, anything, as long as he could get this pent-up frustration out of him.

The Egyptian boy poked him back, harder, his black bangs falling over his dark eyes as his yelled right back. "I would have _found _them again if you hadn't summoned me! Don't blame this on me, Mandrake."

"I should have known you would mess this up," Nathaniel shot back angrily. "When it's up to you, everything goes wrong. Go away, won't you?"

He wasn't sure if he could stand the djinni a moment longer.

The door slammed as Bartimaeus stomped out of his office, shaking the whole entire room. Nathaniel was about shaking with anger, and he tried to force it down. He'd almost had Kitty Jones in his grasp . . . _almost._

But now, back to business. That phone call from the Informative Cabinet in the Ministry; his would-be assassins were Resistance followers, following their lead and taking up arms against important members in charge of London.

But that had been it: the assassins knew nothing more of the Resistance than their deeds, not anything of Kitty or her hideout.

It was completely frustrating. Everywhere he turned, he seemed to hit a dead end.

Nathaniel sat there, pen in hand, spinning it around and around on his fingers, and thought. Above him, a piece of paint splintered away from the ceiling and drifted down like a pale, cream-white snowflake to land on the tips of his outstretched fingers. Nathaniel picked it up gently between thumb and forefinger and let it fall slowly into the bin beside him.

Then at last he got up and left the room. "Bartimaeus?"

The djinni was in his room, staring up at the ceiling, one leg propped up against each other, looking remotely distant and peaceful. But at the mention of his sacred name, he craned his head and spotted Nathaniel. His face fell in disappointment, quickly wiped away and replaced with a blank look.

"Oh. It's you."

"Who else would it be?" Nathaniel asked, feeling another surge of irritation.

"I dunno."

"Hmm."

"Yep."

Nathaniel leaned against the doorframe, feeling out of place in his own bedroom, especially with Bartimaeus reclining on his bed like he owned the place.

At last, he stepped into the room, and stopped beside the bed. He would _not _let Bartimaeus make him feel uncomfortable in his own bedroom. "Your next charge."

"It's the same as the one before, I presume?" Bartimaeus asked without looking over.

"Yes. I charge you to find Kitty and bring her here, and keep her here if I am not at home."

"And what of your safety? Not that I care, of course," Bartimaeus added hastily.

"Foliots have been stationed outside the house; you should see them once you leave."

"All righty then." The djinni was suddenly standing, and he faced the window over Nathaniel's bed. "For my own sake, I hope this doesn't take too long. You do know that Kitty's a hard fish to find?"

Then, with a blur, the djinni had transformed from the gangly Egyptian boy to a light gray pigeon—it clacked its beak and hopped onto the windowsill.

"By the way," the pigeon squawked, craning its neck around to stare at Nathaniel with a beady yellow eye. "I sure hope you know what you're doing."

Then it jumped into the gusty air, wings spread wide and born aloft by the gusty wind. It flapped its wings, soared, and within moments was over a high-rise to disappear from sight.

Nathaniel shut the window and retreated out of the room. He still had that report to write, and as he sat as his desk in thought, he knew it was true, the saying: there was no rest for the weary.

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I was back to work, locating Kitty Jones. It had been a mere coincidence, a twist of fate, when I spotted her at Trafalgar Square. It wouldn't happen again.

So what now?

Several low-hanging clouds, stained an odd tanned-white color by the afternoon sun, were floating peacefully in the breeze, drifting to and fro. The pigeon zoomed straight through them, ripping the cottony whiteness apart and scattering drops of water as it flew out through the other side.

Down below, the markets were winding down and the stalls folded up. The last-minute shoppers hurried to and fro, baskets hung on their arms, looking harassed. Little children clung to their mothers' ankles, sucking on grape sweets that stained their pink tongues a radish purple. One of them glanced up; its eyes widened in shock, and raised a pudgy hand to point straight at me. No one else noticed.

The pigeon grinned devilishly at the child; it buried its face in its mother's shoulder and burst into tears. I flew on. ((Scaring little children is not normally my field of enjoyment, and I see it more as an abuse of power—but hey, I was in a bad mood. I needed to take it out on _someone.))_

At last, after flying nonstop for at least forty minutes, the pigeon stopped for a rest on a lamppost. The stormy gray clouds above seemed to clench tight together, like a fat man trying to suck in his stomach. A loud rumble sounded, the tone of harsh thunder. Then it began to drizzle rain again, and I hunched my shoulders together and ducked my head uncomfortably. My feathers grew slathered together and stuck in great tufts, and rivulets of water ran down my face and dripped into my eyes. A sudden gust of wind whooshed from nowhere, ruffled the limbs of a nearby tree, and nearly knocked me off of my perch.

I regained my balance, shuffled to the side—and promptly slipped on the wet surface. I scrabbled on the tiny scrap of wet metal, wings encompassing the surface and feet waving wildly, and then lost hold and toppled to the ground. I raised my wings, came to an abrupt halt a few feet from the glossy pavement, and cast a glance around to see if any viewer had seen my embarrassing plight. ((Upon which a few soft Detonations would ring and the viewer would be no more. This sort of stuff gets around easily, and hey—I had a reputation to uphold.))

There was no one around, and if anyone had any sense, they wouldn't be. It was coming down like heaven's rivers had suddenly decided to become waterfalls. However, knowing London's unpredictable weather, it could clear up any second with a brightly shining sun and chirping birdsong.

For now, though, I was wet—and sick of being so. The pigeon darted from the sidewalk to an overhang covering a lit-up café. I crouched underneath a gum-ridden table with disgust ((Disgusted because of the rain, the gum, _and _being forced to take cover underneath a table)) and shook out my wet wings in hopes of them drying off.

"Hey, you. Scat."

The pigeon jerked around to see a towering woman with a crinkled, paper-bag face and equally tall broom. She held the broom up threateningly.

"Get out of here, crust-feeder."

I drew myself up in indignation (who was she calling crust-feeder?) but the woman drew herself up equally as tall, and thrust her broom at me, sending me waddling out in defeat from under the table.

"I know it's raining, but you pigeons have got to clear out," she grumbled, and swept off to jam her broom at a group of miserable-looking pigeons clustered beneath another table.

I tested my wings and found them a little bit dryer, and took a running leap into the air. I'd search a bit more, and then return back to the apartment—it was getting late, and it was getting plenty wet. I could continue the search in the morning, and there was no way Nathaniel was getting me to hunt for the Resistance during the night. I'd drag him out with me if I had to.

I flapped down the sidewalk, keeping to the side, where I could fly under the overhangs. The rain continued to fall, growing softer now, the pitter-patter sounds echoing onto the striped overhang fabric.

Eventually I landed back onto the sidewalk, sore from all the ceaseless flapping, and stiff with cold. I changed form into a lanky red-haired boy, bundled him up with a warm jacket and scarf, and began walking down the sidewalk this time, shoulders aching.

As I walked, I formulated a plan. But first, I needed a magical item. It needed to be something a bit powerful, to draw the attentions of any magic-sensing children.

Nathaniel most likely had lots. But that meant flying all the way back to the apartment and then back out again, into the gusty wind and cold, late at night—which I didn't feel up to.

The red-haired boy stabbed each step into the walk, looked at the gray sky, and at the moon now beginning to shine slightly, and shrugged. Time to head back. Nothing had been accomplished.

Feeling downhearted, the ginger ducked into an alleyway. A few seconds later, a sparrow ((I needed some respite from the pigeon form)) darted out from the wide expanse of the alley, headed for the apartment home of the prestigious magician John Mandrake

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Nathaniel leaned forward. His bangs fell into his eyes, obscuring his vision and tickling his eyelids. He brushed the flop of hair impatiently to the side.

Nathaniel observed himself in the mirror, baring his naked chest and trying to look fierce. This was to no use. He merely looked like he had indigestion, or perhaps as if he had a sneeze unwilling to come out. Nathaniel frowned and peered closer.

Days of overwork and stress had left his forehead lined, and the underneath of his eyes baggy. His skin was as pale as ever, and despite his important position, Nathaniel could see no traces of an adult in his thirteen-year-old face. What was it about adults and their ways that children couldn't copy?

He cocked his face from side to side. With one hand, Nathaniel brushed his hair behind his ears and then tried a confident smile, leaning from side-to-side to examine himself from a better angle.

"D'you do this often?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin as he whirled around, clutching a towel in his hand like it was a weapon.

A lanky, red-haired boy leaned against the wall in the doorway, arms folded, eyebrows raised. He was bundled up tightly against the lash of rain and cold outside.

"Bartimaeus?" Nathaniel felt uncertain and strangely foolish. "Is that you?"

"Of course it's me," the boy replied, with a roll of his eyes. With a flash, he became Ptolemy, and then the red-haired boy once more. "Do you need me to be Egyptian in order to know who I am?"

Nathaniel pulled the plug on the sink and watched the water gurgle down the drain. With one hand he groped along the bathroom counter until he found his shirt, tossed nonchalantly aside on top of his hairbrush. He pulled it on, and then looked up at the watching djinni with a frown, and smoothed his hair back instinctively.

Bartimaeus seemed to enjoy watching him squirm.

"I knew you were a bit full of yourself, but _this," _the boy said, grinning, "This reminds me of someone. A preening, plucking someone. Care to think?"

"No, I don't." Nathaniel replied, brushing past Bartimaeus and out into the hall. He strode toward his bedroom in what he hoped was a dignified, long stride.

"You're even strutting like him! By Solomon, you're strutting like him!" Bartimaeus skipped down after Nathaniel, grinning madly. "Guess who it is, Natty boy, come on. Just guess. You want to know, don't you?"

"_No."_

"Okay, fine, I'll tell you. No need to pester me or anything."

Nathaniel opened his bedroom door, and thought of his soft bed with a great weariness. "Bartimaeus . . ."

"Lovelace!"

"I . . . _what_?"

"That's who you reminded me of. Lovelace. He was always strutting and preening like you just were. Looks like _someone's _following in his idol's footsteps."

"Lovelace was NOT my idol!" Nathaniel slammed the door in the djinni's face. It swung closed with a satisfying bang.

He heard a faint mutter in the hallway, the scuff of a shoe, and then footsteps down the hall. Silence.

Nathaniel closed his eyes.

00000000000000000000000000000000

I flicked the fish tank again. The shiny, copper-colored fish inside darted back a ways, before creeping back around to swim in circles once more. He looked rather tasty, but most likely would give me indigestion. Lucky fish.

I straightened up from my crouch beside the side-table. Crossing the carpeted living room to the doorway, I listened to make sure the boy was truly soundly asleep.

There wasn't so much as a rustle from his bedroom, so I stole down the hall on tiptoed feet. I crept past Nathaniel's bedroom, ears attentive for the sounds of his movement, and into his office, to which the door was ajar.

Inside, everything was black with darkness. I switched on the light, bathing the room in a false golden shine.

I needed a magic-radiating item, and presumably one powerful enough to catch the eye of magic-hunting Resistance members. Once a member came scuttling to the bait, I could improvise to find my way to Kitty. ((Hey, it wasn't the greatest plan, but I was tired and out of sorts. I was itching to get back to the Other Place. And if you're wondering why I wasn't consulting my dear young master before taking one of his items, it was mostly because he was likely to deny this request. Most magicians hate the possibility of their property being taken, even for their own purposes.)) I scooted around his desk to the cabinet behind it, and reached out a hand. Freedom was soon to be mine!

Darn it.

The cabinet was made of solid wood, with a silver lock made for a key. Looks like this wasn't going to be as easy as I'd thought. Remember what I said, about things getting worse…?

And where on this Earth would I find the key?

It suddenly clicked to me. A flashback, and I was standing in this office, with Nathaniel, and he was holding up a key that was hung round his neck. It was the key to all of his important magical items, papers, etc.—and the key to this very cabinet.

I needed that key. It was hung around his neck. And he was, currently, sleeping and snoring away in his soft cushy bed.

There would be no better time for theft than this.

Nathaniel was lying sprawled out, head turned to one side, draped over the blankets. Both of his eyes were closed. The moonlight spilling from the window illuminated the key, gleaming brightly on his bare neck. I crept forward, reached out to unfasten the chain-

And leaped back with a barely concealed yelp of pain, clutching my hand in painful irritation. The key was silver, which was cold and burning to my recoiling essence. ((I was amazed I hadn't sensed it earlier. Oh, well, I'd had better things to think about—like where the toilet plunger had gone, and if I really had to dig the clotted hair out of the drain, and other fairly important things.))

I reached past a flop of Nathaniel's tangled pillow and pulled up a corner of the blanket. After a long, drawn out minute, in which the blanket kept on slipping and the necklace began to drift treacherously down toward my hand, I unclasped the chain. Then I did a quick inventory of his room, snapped a few tissue papers out of the box, and slid the necklace off of his neck into my hands.

Nathaniel's eyes fluttered briefly.

I froze, the necklace swinging from my hand, scarcely breathing. Oh, I'd get more than the Stipples for this, if Nathaniel caught me stealing from him. ((Of course, I was stealing from him in order to get the job done, but I don't think he'd take it well even if I explained.))

But the kid's face was peaceful; soon his eyes relaxed. He looked as if . . . well . . . as if he were asleep. ((Sometimes my powers of observation astound even myself.)) But more than that, as if he were letting go of all of his worries, as if he were a normal child for once. Which was rather touching, and I would have stayed and wept sentiments by his side if I didn't have a job to do.

I tiptoed backward out of the room.

Inside his office, I made quick work of the cabinet lock and opened the wooden doors. There several dusty shelves inside, filled with antiquities and magical items galore. All of them pulsed with magic, some of them stronger than others, some of them fainter.

I reached in and snagged a smoothened rock on instinct. It was about the size of a baby's fist, pasty-white and with an average magical pulse; it looked like a minor Glamour stone. ((The magician had merely to say the Glamour spell holding the stone, and it would flare to life, shielding the magician in the Glamour of their choice for as long as the magician liked. It wouldn't run out like a normal Glamour, and was usually much more lifelike. The more powerful ones often fooled even a very experienced magician, and sometimes an inattentive spirit. Of course, such things never held much sway with me.))

I held it in my hand, observing it, and then tucked it into my pocket, clustering the rest of the items inside around the empty space where it had once lain. Then I returned Nathaniel's key without much fuss, went about my other business, and waited for morning with a feeling close to giddy triumph.

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Dawn arrived, signaling its return with light pink clouds that cloistered in the sky. Birds in their nests began to awaken; they trilled their morning songs as they flitted to-and-fro in the yawning sky to fetch their breakfast.

The birds weren't the only ones flying through the sky, though. Unbeknownst to the sleeping world below, an invisible presence soared through the chilly air, carting the Glamour stone along with it.

As I flew through the sky, I began to formulate a plan for the day. I'd assume the form of an unambiguous fellow, stroll around London with the item in my pockets, and hopefully a Resistance member would come my way. It had happened last time, albeit involuntarily on my part. This time I was _looking_ for trouble. ((Oooh, now that sounded feisty. Sorry. Let's get back to the story.))

I landed in an alleyway near Trafalgar Square, where the stall keepers were already preparing for the day. It was a soft, light clamor that sounded from them as they propped up tents and lugged iceboxes filled with chilled honey and sweet fruits.

I was once again the ginger-haired boy. To make my roaming seem more believable, I had taken several copies of Nathaniel's published propaganda and tucked it into a messenger's bag, which I now slung over my shoulder. I pulled a cap onto my head, adjusted it a bit, and then set off.

Dawn came and went. Soon it was midmorning. I finished my loop through the park, calling out "Get your magazines here!" half-heartedly, twirling the cap on one finger as I went.

"What kind of magazines are you selling?"

I knew that voice—and I could hardly believe my luck.

"Government stuff," I said cheerily, turning round.

Behind me, hands in pockets, was one of the boys who had attempted to mug me, back long ago in an alleyway. He was, as it so happened, a member of the Resistance, and it was lucky for me that he had bumped into me. Unlucky for him, of course, but never mind that.

"Government? How _thrilling_," the teen said drily. He wasn't robust, but lanky like the form I was wearing. He smelled better this time around. His acne had, in no way, improved. I could tell that at a single glance. It looked as if he had mashed face-first into a pizza, and then pressed a strainer to his face.

"You wanna buy one? They're dirty cheap." I began glancing around to check the surroundings.

We were in a rather public area, with passing joggers and cyclists, and hurrying people getting late to work. It was a Monday, after all, if I've got this modern calendar right.

The boy, I noticed, had been looking at my bag the whole time. Most likely he could sense the Glamour stone through the material. I cleared my throat, and at last the boy, who hadn't quite looked me over properly as he came over, raised his eyes—and stopped dead. He stumbled a few feet away.

I found myself liking this effect of mine. "What're you going away for? Thought you'd wanna buy these." I pulled out a few sheets of paper and flipped through them appealingly. "No?"

He scoffed openly, and then took another step back, belying his feigned bravery. "I know what you are, and don't come a step closer."

Ah. It proved that this one could see. I skipped a step, raising my eyebrows innocently. "I've no idea what you're talking about. I'm a magazine boy, sure, but that's it."

The boy looked around at the public place and then back at me. I made sure to cover up my true form, all the way to the seventh plane where it was just about impossible to do so.

His eyes narrowed. "Liar."

This was getting me nowhere. I took off, glancing over my shoulder as I did so, and saw him standing there casually, hands still in pockets, looking back at me. His eyes were still narrowed, and when he thought I wasn't looking he began to walk, following me.

I dashed across a busy street, much to the distress of drivers, who honked and yelled at me with much abandon. I waved my arms at them and continued on, darting through an alleyway. I had to lose him, if this plan was going to work. He had to leave me, and find the others. Otherwise, it was hopeless.

I had to lose an acned, skinny, human teenager? Now _that _was easy as buttered pie. ((If it had been an acned, skinny _djinni, _now that would have been a different matter. I would've taken it in in stride, of course, but it would have been a tiny bit more difficult. Just a tiny bit.))

I ran down the alleyway, curved to the left and dodged to the side to avoid a jogging mother with a stroller ((Did _everyone _in London jog? Why were there so many joggers? It was insane)), and ducked into another alleyway. Once I was there, I swiftly threw the bag into a nearby bin, changed form into a pigeon, and darted upward. I flew through an open window just as the boy arrived in the alley. He cursed and spat on the floor, and then took off in another direction. It was just as I'd thought—he hadn't waited around long enough to check for traces of magic.

The pigeon turned around triumphantly—to find that it was in a kitchen. Looming over it threateningly, holding a copper saucepan in one hand and the other hand on a hip, was a middle-aged woman, eyebrows linked together in such ferocity that they seemed melded into one.

It was the same woman as the night before—the one with a broom. Only now she had a saucepan instead. I preferred the broom a whole lot more.

"Why can't you pigeons just SCAT!" she bellowed, and brought the pan down with a sharp clang.

I had thrown myself to the side just in time, and she hit the window frame with severe force instead, denting the side of her fine copper pan.

"My PAN!" she roared, running a hand over the dent, and then stomping toward me, where I had alighted high up on a shelf. "YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS!"

I didn't feel like sticking around for a chat with a raging woman with a dented saucepan and a grudge towards pigeons. Thus, with my usual haste, I scuttled to the side. When she wasn't looking, I turned into a tiny fly.

She turned back to the shelf, pan held aloft in a hand, saw the empty space, and then raged once more, slammed the window in front of the sink shut, and preceded to search every inch of the kitchen.

Now that my escape route had been rather abruptly cut off, I circled around in the air. Then I zoomed toward the door, which led out through a rumpled living room. Past the cluttered hallway, in which coats and kitchen aprons were hung, along with, bizarrely, a giant rubber duck with a chain around its neck.

I landed on the floor, crawled a few inches, and then hopped forward to escape through the narrow crack beneath the front door. Once outside, I changed form once again to the ginger boy—I hurriedly collected the messenger bag.

The Glamour stone was still in there. The propaganda was, too, but who cares much about that? Anyway, I had to find Kitty, and this boy was going to help me do it. The trap had been set.

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After a while, it was around afternoon. Nothing much eventful had happened. I'd strolled around a bit. Then it did. Eventfulness, I mean.

As I'd said before, it was the afternoon. A movement caught my eye—a group of children, maneuvering themselves down the street after me, trying to look discreet. So they'd caught the bait. The boy had been the first step. Now it was the second.

I made sure to turn into an alleyway, and I heard the sound of running feet after me as they came to apprehend me. I turned around, grinning.

It was the same group as before, minus one. Kitty and a boy were standing at the beginning of the alley. No matter the boy. It was Kitty I was interested in, and I was fully prepared to do a quick snatch-and-run.

They meandered down the alley toward me. I looked to the end of the alley, where a few dustbins sat in their grimy kingdom, and the acned boy from before appeared. I was cornered.

"You've got something in your bag that we want," Kitty said menacingly.

I tossed the Glamour stone up and down in the air. "What, this little thing? As if."

"You're not faking it anymore, are you? You're not human." It was the boy from before, his gaze contemptuous and angry. "You're a demon."

There we went again with the insults. I shook a finger at him, caught the stone with one hand and tucked it back into the bag. "I have absolutely no idea what you're taking about."

He looked fit to burst, but a glare from Kitty kept him from charging me right out.

They slowly circled around me so I was surrounded. I held up my hands.

"Okay, you've got me, I lied," I said with pitiful remorse. "Let the poor djinni go." Then I perked up. "Hey, I feel a joke coming on. There were three kids and a djinni in an alleyway…"

"I know you," Kitty said at the same time. She let out a loose breath. A few seconds ticked by as she thought hard. ((It must have been painful for her.))

"You were the djinni in that alley before," she said at last. "The Egyptian one, weren't you? I recognize your voice."

I wasn't sure whether to lie or to say the truth, so for once I said nothing. And that, apparently, meant _yes _to Kitty Jones, because she took a brave step forward, her eyes narrowed.

"We lost a good person that night," she said. "To the Night Police."

"Well," I replied with a shrug, leaning casually against the grimy wall, "_You guys _were the ones that attacked _me._ Not my fault._" _((This was quite true. I'd just been minding my own business until they came. If the Night Police interrupted their robbery, werewolf form and slobbery jaws and all, what fault of it was mine? The answer was: none.))

Kitty said nothing, just regarded me, and then she put her hands on her hips. "It means nothing now. Hand the stone over."

"_Again _with this?" I said in a resigned tone. I took a step as if to leave. "You can go find some other poor djinni to rob."

The two boys moved forward. I tensed myself with glee, prepared to launch myself at Kitty.

They moved, I moved, but as I flailed forward they gripped my ankle and brought me into the dust. Shocked, I sat up quickly and wriggled in their grasp, shifting quickly from boy to tiger to fox, keeping a tight grip on the bag with my jaws.

Their fingers grasped my ankle, tangled in my striped fur, and loosened on my tiny fox body.

I darted forward, but one grabbed my tail, and I let out an undignified screech through the fabric of the bag. He reeled me in like a fish on a hook, and I whipped around, paws raised, and blasted them with a Detonation.

After the brilliant flame subsided, I was confronted with two windy-haired but completely healthy young boys, to my disappointment. Ah, well, it hadn't worked last time, either.

And I'd greatly underestimated these children.

I lay pinned in the dirt. The bag lay dropped beside me, and I watched Kitty's weathered sneakers approach and stop. A hand reached down and picked up the blue messenger bag.

"Thanks for this."

I felt like cursing out loud, and would've, except for the fact that my face was pressed into the dirt. I wasn't usually the negative sort, but it was written fine and clear—this plan had utterly failed.

"Come on, boys." Kitty turned and began walking off.

I heaved upward in desperation, startling the two boys. They were shot off my back like twin rockets.

The acned boy rolled a ways before bumping into the dustbin. The other one really _flew, _flying through the air before crashing into an untied, black trash bag. It slid sideways with this encouragement, and with a mighty swish all of its contents emptied onto his head. Soda cans, chip bags, and leftover macaroni salad spilled across the cemented floor.

While this clamor occurred, I leaped forward. As I did so, I began changing swiftly into a gargoyle and grabbed a startled Kitty by the back of her hood. I lifted her and the toted messenger bag high into the bright blue sky, casting a Glamour to shield us from prying eyes.

A few seconds later, it appeared that Kitty wasn't going to go peacefully.

As we rose into the air, my stony wings beating, she grappled with one hand towards her boot. She edged it down, struggling to reach it as we zoomed over the tiny houses and buildings below. The hand stretched, reached…and the gargoyle glanced back, saw the glint of metal, and let out a curse.

Kitty slashed up at my gripping talons with a silver knife. Her eyes were hard with anger and fear, and I kicked hard at the knife with my other foot. For a few seconds we grappled silently, her digging away at my gripping leg and me attempting to rip the darned knife away from her. Finally, after the knife bit into me for the hundredth time with a cold chill that made me feel faint, I decided to choose a different tactic.

"Look!" I shouted above the wind. "This isn't anything personal between you and me. It's just my charge, and Na—Mandrake's a fair enough sort. Plus, we're flying pretty fast and pretty high. You're going to make me drop you, and if I do the results won't be pretty. You, I mean. Not that you're ugly or anything..."

She paid no attention to my blathering speech, and continued ripping away at my delicate essence-held flesh with that cursed knife. I felt woozy, and my head spun. We seriously were going to fall if she kept that up.

So I shook her hard, jiggling my leg. Kitty swung from side to side over London city, so high up that the people looked like ants and the cars like tiny beetles, glinting in the sun. She held on determinedly.

I shook her harder. We wove back and forth across the sky, like a frenzied bird hopped up on too much caffeine. She looked like she was going to be sick, and I felt a pang of guilt—but she was the one who had started it.

Eventually Kitty dropped the knife, sending it whirling end-over-end toward a chimney far below. The pains in my head cleared slightly. Beads of essence dripped out of my leg and onto her hands, and she spat in disgust. Again, this was _not my fault_.

"Where are you taking me, infernal demon?" she yelled at last, swinging from her hood as I dipped down under a cloud.

"The abode of John Mandrake," I reported civilly ((Civilly: at least, when coming from a djinni who had just been insulted _and _injured. Now I understood the phrase, 'to add insult to injury_.'_)) "And for future references, I would prefer to be called _masterful spirit _or _powerful djinni._ The name 'demon' is extremely rude."

"I'd never call you those," she retorted spiritedly. "You work for the magicians; you're their servants! How could you serve people like that? 'Demon' is too good of a term for you!"

"And where do you get stuff like that?" I replied angrily, deliberately brushing her through a cloud. "We don't _work _for them_." _((Well. Technically we did. But I wasn't about to tell _her _that, was I?))

She came out through the other end covered in dewy drops, and she glared up at me triumphantly. The gargoyle, which had craned its neck over its shoulder to catch her reaction, turned just in time to see a tall tower approaching fast—it swerved to the left and narrowly avoided a crash.

"Then what is it that you do?" Kitty snapped. She seemed quite unfazed by her near death.

I huffed in irritation, gripped the back of her hood tighter, and we flew on in silence.

0000000000000000000000000000000

Of course, I couldn't stay quiet for long. Call it my energetic personality.

"It's not _servitude,_ you know," I said softly.

Kitty said nothing, but I could sense her listening despite herself.

"It's more like slavery. It's against our will…and we're the reason why the magicians have so much control. The magicians have no real power besides their bluster and learning. Take away their ability to summon us, and then what are they? Merely fat, pompous fools in charge of running everything."

"You could speak up against them," Kitty said at last. Her tone was quiet. "At least the Resistance defies them. Your kind just sits back and takes it, does their dirty work for them without a second thought."

I went rigid with indignation. "What kind of dung is _that_? Of course not! We do all we can to trip the magicians up, make them stumble, make them careless . . . but it's not easy, you know. There's bindings and charges, and punishments if we fail."

"Hmm." Kitty didn't sound as if she was that impressed, and to be truthful, I wasn't, either. ((There was nothing much that spirits could do against their masters, besides a good swipe and eating if the unfortunate magician made careless mistake regarding the spirit. In fact, even that was hard to do—it had been ages since I'd last disposed of a master of mine.))

We passed over a street dominated by the housing of the rich. Each mansion had its own exquisite, if boastful, display of wealth and taste. This neighborhood isn't where Mandrake lived, however. He wasn't quite in that position of power yet—he lived right on the edge of this brandishing chichi of a street, in a row of apartment complexes. That was where we were headed now.

Kitty was looking down at the mansions with a disgusted expression. "They have all of this when the common people have nothing? It's not fair. It's not right."

"It's as you say," I replied. "But that's the way it's been for centuries, with civilization upon civilization."

"How would you know?"

"I've been around a lot."((This is called a massive understatement.))

By now we had passed over the wealthy neighborhood, and reached the other side. I dropped down over a bushy tree, aiming towards a window in Nathaniel's apartment. The only problem: the windows were shut. No biggie.

Kitty shrieked and closed her eyes, thrusting her arms up to cover her head.

Just before we hit the glass, I threw out a Squall, sending the windows flying open. I tossed Kitty inside first, sending her tumbling down to the floor in a flailing heap. I landed a little more gingerly.

We were in the summoning room, and the chalk-drawn pentacles gleamed in the evening sun. Kitty picked herself up without a word, though she did cast a dour look in my direction. The gargoyle ignored her, and began picking at the dirt beneath its talons.

When I glanced up again, Kitty was halfway to the door, one hand stretched out for the doorknob. I casually stretched and rapped a talon loudly against the floor.

"What, exactly, do you think you're doing?"

Kitty snatched her hand back and faced me defiantly. "What does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

"Leaving. Sorry, but I can't let you do that. Master's orders, you know."

"You can't keep me here."

"Yes, I can."

"I'll fight."

"And then I'll just knock you out with one of Mandrake's stuffy books. Don't even try."

She stood there, scowling unabashedly at me, and then sat down on a chair. She folded her arms. She looked at the wall. For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

When I looked back up at the room, Kitty was staring at the floor as if she could melt it with her eyes. I shifted uncomfortably.

"So . . . " The gargoyle cast around for an object of conversation. "Have you ever met my master?"

"Maybe."

"Dark hair, peaky face, really skinny. Not ringing any bells?"

Kitty shook her head.

"Are you sure? I mean, he doesn't really get around a lot, but . . ."

At last, she threw her hands in the air. "Leave me _alone,_ all right? I've been kidnapped,and all you can do is chatter on aimlessly about things I don't even care about!" Her eyes were bright and fiery; the gargoyle stared. Nathaniel would have a problems with this one, if he'd been expecting a dull little commoner sheep.

"So just shut up, okay? _Please." _Kitty jerked back a little as she said this, as if she feared I would jump up and eat her. ((A little flattering, but unreasonable. She had too many bones on her, which would make her hard to choke down. And besides, I presumed my bothersome master would prefer a live Kitty to a dead one.))

I surveyed her for a few moments, and then shrugged and began sharpening my talons on the wall. Kitty rubbed at a smudge on her knee, shoulders hunched and knees drawn up to her chest as she huddled on the chair.

Time ticked by.

London was setting in for the night. I wondered, briefly, if there was anyone out there who would be looking out at the same sky, and wondering where Kitty Jones was, what was happening to her, if she was all right.

"My mum and dad won't be worrying about a thing, most likely," Kitty said suddenly, abruptly. It was like she had read my mind.

So _now _she decided to start talking, eh? I cast her a look. Just a look, and that's all that was needed to get Kitty talking once more.

"They care more about the order in life than me," she muttered. "And the thing is—I don't really care. I don't love them much either. They're ignorant, brainwashed traitors."

She glanced at me, to gauge my reaction. She had a strange expression on her face, something between uncertainty and brazenness.

I looked back at her and started slowly clapping my hands. "That's the way to go. Hurray. Let's just hope Mandrake doesn't make me kill you—that would spoil things, wouldn't it?"

Kitty, turned back to her wall, and I to mine, and once more time ticked on by.

00000000000000000000000000000000

In the office building of the Internal Affairs department, Nathaniel hunched over his desk. A flop of dark hair kept on sliding down his forehead and into his eyes, which were burning with tiredness. He swept up a hand, not pausing in his work, to brush it back up.

"Mandrake."

Nathaniel glanced up—and forced back the annoyed expression that he knew had risen to his face, if only for a moment. "Hello, Mr. Tallow."

Julius Tallow was a sour man, with a skin tone the color of a sunflower. This odd disfigurement had resulted from his frequent, poorly done readings directly from the books during his work of magic, which was never a wise idea. He was a bungling, maladroit magician who had weaseled his way to being Minister of Internal Affairs through sheer slipperiness and great acting skills. Of course, his incompetence meant regular visits to Nathaniel's office, where he was filled in—or, of course, in the act of filling _Nathaniel _in.

Tallow was a drowning man in a sea of sharks.

Nathaniel was sure that without him, Tallow would have been attacked and eaten by now, lost in the stormy blue ways of government. Of course, Nathaniel was never going to let than happen to himself_._

Tallow straightened the white cuffs hanging over his hands, concealing their pasty yellow color, and strode into the room, ducking his top-hatted head under the doorway as he did so. "I presume that you read the report on yesterday's incident?"

"Yes, sir," Nathaniel replied. He shifted his stack of papers to the side, paperwork he was filling in because of the _"incident" _yesterday, and gave Tallow his full attention.

"And?" Tallow prompted impatiently.

"I visited the scene to see if there was anything the report had missed. There was nothing—all the clues led to the explosion of an Elemental Sphere, which was exactly what the report had described."

Tallow was nodding his head knowingly. "Well, of course, boy. Did you expect to find something other? Something only _you _could find, that the police crawling over it hadn't?"

Despite himself, despite the rigidity he tried to keep over his features, Nathaniel felt a fierce blushing redness spread from his cheeks and outward. That was, actually, exactly what he had expected. It both shamed him and elated him, that he had the power and the knowledge, but the arrogance to think so. "Perhaps so, sir."

"And what on the leads to the Resistance?"

The two djinn on the job had reported to him today, each appearing in their appropriate pentacle. One, in the form a resplendent phoenix, had an injured expression and singed tail; the next smelled of goopy tomatoes and had a damaged pride. The two indignant djinn had confessed to being attacked out of nowhere by chanting children, and being forced to flee. Kitty had not yet been spotted. Hopefully Bartimaeus, whom he had not seen since last night, would have some news.

"The djinn on duty were attacked—by children. The spirits tried their magic, but it had no effect on most of them. And all of the children could see the djinn."

"Which means?" Tallow had assumed a look of bored contempt, and Nathaniel felt a surge of irritation.

"What do _you _think, Minister?"

Tallow looked momentarily surprised—then he quickly changed expressions to a look of blasé annoyance. "I thought I was asking _you, _John," he snapped. "Now, go on. Tell me." One of Tallow's eyebrows was raised, and his mouth was turned down in a frown—Nathaniel got the message. _Don't test me._

"It means the children are Resilient to magic," he said with a sigh. "It means they're born with it, and more and more of them are getting it. It means complications for us."

"Undoubtedly," Tallow said with a snap again. He straightened his starch-white cuffs again, adjusted his broad-brimmed top hat, and fixed Nathaniel with a keen-eyed stare. "Get down to the job, Mandrake. I'll be expecting results soon—all this has taken too long.

"Good day."

"Good day, sir."

And with that, Julius Tallow turned with a peacock's strut to the door. Nathaniel watched him sashay off, and then brought his focus back to the pile of paperwork with a slight gritting of his teeth.

At last, after reading so many tiny scripts that he could barely read for the blur, he shuffled the unfinished papers into a briefcase. Nathaniel grabbed his coat, took a last swig of tea from the cooling cup by his side, and then left his office.

A cool, fresh breeze gusted through the air, blowing back his matted hair. The back of his coat whipped in the wind, in a way Nathaniel thought rather distinguished.

_Let's see if Bartimaeus has found anything on the Resistance, _Nathaniel thought to himself with doubt. _If he hasn't, I shan't be too hard on him. After all, as he said . . . Kitty is a hard fish to find._

000000000000000000000000000

I was picking at my nails once again when I heard it. It was the rattling going on downstairs, the sound of a key being jiggled in the lock.

"Mandrake's home," the gargoyle said casually, hopping up; it lashed its tail and flashed a wicked smile in Kitty's direction. "Let's see what he has to say, eh?"

Kitty was looking rather pale and peaky, and her fingers were clasped tightly together, but she stood up and faced the door.

"Scared?"

She didn't answer, but the look on her face gave it all away.

"If you talk freely, I bet nothing bad will happen to you," I advised. "Believe me, I've had experience."

Kitty's eyes smoldered. "I'll _never _betray my friends," she snarled. "I'm loyal to them, and they trust me—something you'd _never_ understand, demon."

"What—loyalty and trust?" I folded my arms. "More than you'd think, Kitty Jones. And I'm _not _a demon."

We both looked away and sniffed at the same time.

"Bartimaeus! Are you home?"

I ambled to the door and stuck my head out. "Yep. We're in the summoning room."

"_We're . . .?"_

"Come and see for yourself."

Behind me, Kitty had her chin jutting out petulantly, although her hands were shaking slightly. "I assume this is the O Great and Powerful John Mandrake?" she said sarcastically.

"Yep."

"He sounds like a kid."

"That's right. You're going to be a teeny bit surprised."

She looked bewildered for a moment, and then she shrugged. "I wouldn't care if he had three eyes and tentacles to go with it. Let's just get this over with."

I admit that I had to admire her fiery spirit. I should have brought some popcorn along with me, and maybe a comfy chair. Things were about to get interesting.

Footsteps down the hall. I could just picture Nathaniel steeling his face, and his mouth a hard straight line—and then walking into the room and his jaw dropping down. This was going to be good. Maybe there'd be a hissy fight between the magician and the commoner—how original.

Then the door popped open, and Nathaniel was in the doorway. As I'd predicted, his face was steeled, and his mouth was indeed in a straight line. I could've measured it with a ruler.

Kitty had jumped a bit when the door opened, and now she was as rigid as a pole, her arms still tucked tight around her. When Nathaniel arrived in the doorway, her eyes had flared in recognition, and then she wiped her face into a blank and passive expression.

No one said a word.

Finally:

"Kitty Jones." It was Nathaniel speaking, and his eyes were fixed firmly on her face. "Well done, Bartimaeus."

"Hey, I was just doing my job," I said modestly, holding up my hands. But Nathaniel had already moved on, and he was shutting the door behind him.

"What a pleasure at last, Ms. Jones."

"Not for me," she said quietly. Wonderingly. "I know you. You were that boy. The one we stole the scrying glass from." Now Kitty shook her head. "What's happened to _you? _Weren't you just an innocent little kid the other day? And now look."

"_Innocent little kid?_ We were the same age. We _are_ the same age," Nathaniel protested. "And I'm better off than I ever was before! I'll even consider forgiving you for stealing my scrying glass."

"It was a junky piece of work," Kitty Jones snapped. "I'm not surprised that you made it. And I should've let Fred and Stanley kill you when we had the chance. This is what I get for my attempt at _mercy."_

Nathaniel glowered. "You're headed for the Tower, Miss Jones, unless you can lever up some information. Change your ways. Help us track down the rest of the Resistance, and maybe you can find a spot among the great."

Kitty scoffed openly. "I'd never join leagues with magicians."

Nathaniel opened his mouth, but Kitty cut him off again.

"And," she snapped, taking another step forward, "I'd certainly never help someone like _you."_

Nathaniel had taken steps back as Kitty moved forward. He was now backed up against the door.

"You know what you are? You're a pompous, stuck-up _prat. _Just like all the other magicians. And you've done nothing by capturing me. I'll never talk!"

Nathaniel attempted to reassert himself. He drew himself up, said waspishly: "You'll regret this, Miss Jones. Now you've missed your chance. Enjoy your stay in the Tower."

Kitty said nothing, just stood fuming at him. Her hands were balled into white-knuckled fists at her sides. The two teenagers stood there, glaring at each other, their lips pressed together hard and tight. A heavy silence descended.

It was broken by the loud sound of a clearing throat and slow clapping. "Bravo, bravo."

Two pairs of eyes swiveled to direct their glowers upon the gargoyle leaning casually, and unnoticed until thus far, against a wall.

"What?" I said, raising my stony eyebrows at them. "I was enjoying this verbal catfight of yours. Now all we need is the hissing and the clawing. Personally, I think if there was a fight, Kitty would pin N—John in no time. There's no muscle at all on that boy. Of course, if there was a fight in long, dreary speeches and darkening talks that are meant to be uplifting, then Mandrake would win."

Kitty smirked. Nathaniel looked like he wanted to strangle me.

"Bartimaeus—"

"—Yes?" I interrupted. "Oh, don't mind me, just continue on."

Another awkward moment of silence, and then Nathaniel spun around to face Kitty once more.

"So…" He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "The Tower, Miss Jones."

"And I was just about to say that you can drag me to the Tower all you like, I'm not talking." Kitty easily hit stride again, and her dark eyes bored holes into Nathaniel's. "Not saying a word, and all this work it took to find me will be for nothing."

"Then at least we'll have the ringleader," Nathaniel rebutted.

"I'm no—" Kitty stopped short, looking away to the side. But that was all Nathaniel needed.

"So someone else is in charge of the Resistance, then?" he wheedled. "Who?"

Kitty looked back at him, purse-lipped and zipped.

"Kitty Jones, _tell me." _I could hear the desperation in his voice, the realization that Kitty wasn't in charge—which meant, he had virtually _not _stopped the Resistance when capturing her. The attacks would continue on even without this fiery, dark-haired girl, and with it his reputation would deteriorate.

No answer. Kitty just looked glazed-eyed at a crack in the floor, as if it were the most interesting thing she'd seen all day. More interesting than the shocked-speechless boy in front of her. Of course, I was enjoying Nathaniel's surprise.

"Is somebody _surprised?" _I snickered, cupping my chin in my palm and cocking my head to grin at Nathaniel. "Looks like all your work has been flushed down the drain."

"Stay _out _of this!" Nathaniel bellowed at me—there came a ringing in my ears, and the unsaid threat of a Spasm. I snapped my beak shut sharpish.

"Oooh, impressive," Kitty said dryly. "You don't like what you hear, so you're shutting it down? And you wonder _why_ we're fighting back. . . _well_. . ."

Nathaniel gazed at her. "I…"

The gargoyle was nodding its head quickly. "So shocked? About time someone put you in your place. And lo! It's a commoner!"

This seemed to snap Nathaniel back, and he took a step forward to grip Kitty's arm. "Enough talk. A few calls, and then we're taking you to the Tower. We'll see if you're still as bold then."

"And as I said before, you won't get a word out of me," Kitty replied calmly. Nathaniel looked fit to burst—I wouldn't be surprised if he started hopping in anger around the room.

"The Mournful Orbs will soon change your mind," he retorted. "Just you wait, Kitty Jones. You're right, you should have killed me when you had the chance—because now you've been caught, because of me, and there's nothing you can do about it! Are you still as brave _now_?"

Kitty had grown paler as Nathaniel grew redder, and her eyes sparked with something within. She took a step back. Her head was bowed. Nathaniel's grip loosened on her arm, and he began to look unsure. "Erm . . ."

Suddenly, faster than a whip, Kitty jerked upward and slapped him so hard it made even me wince. He staggered, made a little sound.

"Bartimaeus . . ." Nathaniel wobbled. A red handprint shone brightly on his cheek. I blinked innocently at him.

"Yes?"

Kitty, her eyes flaming with burning anger, lashed out again and punched him in the eye. Nathaniel stumbled back and tripped over my tail, ((Which just so happened to be in the way)) and fell to the floor. The back of his head connected with the leg of a table, and he lay sprawled on the ground in total unconsciousness. Oopsies.

Kitty stood panting above the boy's prone form. Her hair was falling about her face, hiding it, and then she shoved it back away. "Are you going to . . . ?" she asked me defiantly.

"Nah, don't worry about it," I answered, prodding Nathaniel with my toe. "He did say, 'Stay out of this,' after all."

Kitty stared at him for a moment. Her face was now flushed and bright. "I just beat up a magician."

"Very true. Congratulations, that's something I've been wanting to do."

"He's going to kill me when he wakes up, isn't he?"

"Most likely." I looked up at her. The gargoyle's tail shifted and pointed at the door. "The best place to be would be far, far away . . ."

Kitty moved to the door uncertainly. She looked at me. I watched her. She put one hand on the doorknob. I did nothing.

"You're not going to stop me?"

"Perhaps not."

Kitty turned the knob, did a final glance back, and then she was gone, springing down the hall. I heard the distant slam of another door, and then silence. She was gone.

You may be wondering why I didn't stop her. Certainly this was my charge? This had indeed been so; but Nathaniel had expressed to me to _"keep her here if I am not home." _I had done so until the boy had walked in—now he was home, and I no longer had to "keep her here." So Kitty was free to go. Along with my own freedom.

Darkness came, and I sat in the room, Nathaniel by my feet, contemplating. I rarely think about the future, but this was one of those times. For my apparent failure, would Nathaniel keep me here on Earth for way longer than I had planned? Or even, perhaps, the Shriveling Fire?

It was little more five minutes after Kitty had ran off when I felt it. The ground began to resonate, like the sound waves bouncing off from a playing band had been fed into the floor. I reached down and felt the trembling beneath my feet. Nathaniel groaned, rubbed his eyes, and tried to sit up.

The gargoyle looked around in bewilderment.

Out of the air sprang a shimmering dust that filled the whole room. The gargoyle shuffled back and forth, picked up Nathaniel, and began retreating toward the door. When in doubt, the best thing to do is to run away. That's my motto.

The shimmer in the air lightened, and then swirled around to become a mix of all sorts of colors, every color you could imagine. They formed a large blur in the air.

Nathaniel pulled away from my grasp and stood unsteadily. For a moment, all disagreements between us were forgotten, as we faced this unknown blur-thing, this swirl of colors in the middle of the room.

The colors swirled, mixed, and blended. There was no pattern, everything was random, and it was enough to drive a human mad.

I knew what it was—it was the image of all of the essences in the Other Place, colliding in our togetherness. But what was it doing in Nathaniel's summoning room? And why?

Nathaniel gazed at the thing, the lights reflected in his eyes, and his mouth was open slightly. "It's beautiful."

And indeed it was.

Nathaniel and I stayed in the doorway, bewitched. Suddenly, the resonations in the floor died away to became slight tremors.

**Bartimaeus, Sakhr Al Jinni, and Nathaniel Fiston. **A deep, resonating voice, chocolaty and powerful, neither female nor male in sounding but somewhere in between, exploded from everywhere.

Nathaniel doubled back and the gargoyle tensed in surprise. The voice was not only coming from everywhere, but also inside our heads. It was alarming, to put it mildly. ((And not only the voice, but the mention of Nathaniel's last name, which until now I hadn't known—and in consideration of the boy's expression, he hadn't either.))

"O Masterful….Being," I said, stepping in, because Nathaniel looked like he was going to be sick. Trust the magician to be no good in times of trouble. It was always the djinni. "Who are you?" ((Note that I'm being polite. Mostly because this being could probably blast me into bits if it got affronted.))

**I am Everything, and I am Nothing.**

Well, that explained everything, didn't it? ((This is called being ironic. Or maybe it's sarcastic.))

Nathaniel had recovered himself, and he stepped forward as well. "Which means?" he asked shakily. "Forgive me and the demon, but we don't understand."

**It is as I said. I am essence and the souls of Everything. I make up Everything. I am Everything. But I am also Nothing. I have no true body or shape, and I live in Everything.**

**I am the Final plane.**

**"**Final…plane?" I could see the cogs working in Nathaniel's head. "Like the seventh plane?"

**I am past that. I am past which the higher entities can see. I am all the planes together.**

"You're sentient," I said. "And you're shaped out of essence."

**I am indeed sentient. But this is not essence. It is merely a guise, like you wear, young djinni. I am Everything, all around you. This shape is only a smidgen of what I am.**

I understand now, that the being was everything and all. And it was the souls and essences of everything. That last bit bothered me. "So you have my essence?"

**It could take you centuries to learn all about the Final plane, **the voice boomed, **But yes. I am you. You are part of me. **And with that, it adopted my voice. **You are part of me, **it repeated, and flashes and images of my past darted across the swirling rainbow of colors.

The blur of color then turned, or as much as a blur of color can turn, toward Nathaniel. **As are you.**

**But I have not brought myself out of my dream-state to chat, **it said suddenly, returning to its former voice. **Things are not how they should be. I do not normally intervene in the fates of others, but I must do so now, with great reluctance. I will return them to their former path. The Trilogy will be set back on course. Bartimaeus, you are dismissed.**

For a second, I was dumbstruck—this thing could dismiss me? Then I began to shimmer. I grinned cheekily at Nathaniel, bowed my head to the Final plane, and then zapped out of there. I was going home.

000000000000000000000000000

Nathaniel was in fearful awe. "You can dismiss my djinni?"

**Indeed so.**

"You said something about a Trilogy. What is that?"

**You need not to know, boy. All I can say is that you have a path to fulfill, and I must help you arrive to it before you must walk down its dusty lane.**

**Now. I am afraid I must take your memories of these past months, as well as Bartimaeus'. You will not recall this visit, nor summoning Bartimaeus again, nor of capturing Kitty. Kitty's memory will be wiped as well.**

"What?!" Nathaniel leaned back as a long tendril of essence reached for him.

**This must be done. Obey.**

The essence snaked around his wrist, a cold ropey touch, and then coiled upward.

**Good-bye, Nathaniel Fiston.**

The stream of essence touched his forehead. His whole life, everything that had happened to him, raced through his mind. He gasped in pain—something similar to a shock of cold water had jolted his brain, and everything began to rewind, back to the moment…where he had summoned Bartimaeus for the second time…and after that, when he had dismissed the djinni after the Amulet incident…and then everything went black.

000000000000000000000000

Across London, something similar was happening to Kitty as she crouched in the mud of a darkened alleyway. It happened, too, in the Other Place, and a green-colored stream of essence writhed and wriggled.

One-by-one, the three's memories of recent events were erased. Satisfied, the Final plane withdrew back into its dreamlike slumber, and the tremors throughout all of London, throughout the whole world, faded away and stopped.

The Bartimaeus Trilogy was back on track.


End file.
